


Swords into Plowshares

by azephirin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Dirty Talk, Domestic, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hand Job, Post-War, Safer Sex, Sharing a Bed, Sleep, girl!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-24
Updated: 2010-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>They will hammer their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not lift up sword against nation, and never again will they learn war.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Swords into Plowshares

**Author's Note:**

> This follows "[Bread Without Sorrow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/63128)," but if you don't feel like reading that (it's short!), this story should make sense on its own. Title, summary, and cut text from [Isaiah 2:4](http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah%202:4;&version=49;) (NASV).

She has to walk through the dark house one last time before she can go to bed. Make sure the doors are locked, the salt laid, the runes carved—the danger is gone (or, at least, likely to be human at this point rather than demon), but she can't sleep without knowing that everything is in place.

Sam's door is partway open, and Dinah steels herself to peek inside. Intellectually she knows that Sam is there and safe, but she needs to see it. Has to know with her own eyes before she can rest. She just really, really doesn't want to witness something in the process that's going to scar her for life.

Okay, yes, Sam and Ruby are asleep together, but Sam's clearly got a shirt on, and that's all they're doing, sleeping. Sam has Ruby cradled in his enormous arms, and her face is peaceful in a way Dinah's never quite seen before. The body—her body, now—is beautiful, because Ruby doesn't do it any other way, but there was always a tightness in her eyes and lips. That's gone now. All she looks like is a human girl, fast asleep in the arms of somebody who loves her. Dinah just hopes like hell that Ruby loves him back. There was some kind of blanket pardon handed down when they won—like a big "thanks for saving the universe" get-out-of-jail-free card—but Dinah's totally willing to nix that if Ruby hurts her brother. Maybe Ruby's good now, maybe she's their ally, but Dinah has no problem with killing her ass if Ruby breaks Sam's heart.

Dinah would really prefer not to have it go down like that, though. She'd kind of like to be done with killing for a while. Maybe forever. Swords into plowshares, whatever. Maybe she'll become a farmer. Have a farmhouse and, like, cows. Or sheep. Maybe chickens.

She's so tired.

She walks down the hallway to the back bedroom, careful to step lightly on the old, creaky floorboards. The door is open a few inches, casting a narrow line of faint light across the century-old pine. He's left the bedside lamp on, then. She opens the door enough to step inside, then closes it behind her.

Castiel blinks sleepily and looks up at her. They've shared beds before, but more from necessity—lack of space, or the terror-driven need to feel another body close—than from choice. From desire. She could sleep on the couch: She's short enough that it isn't uncomfortable, and anyway God knows she's slept on worse. But somehow they've both ended up here the past two nights. No clothes came off, and they went to sleep on their respective sides of the bed—and woke up in the middle, pressed close, her leg over his hip, her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulders and his fingers tangled in her hair.

There's not a whole lot of modesty left among the four of them, plus he's maybe half awake, so he doesn't react at first when she strips down to what she'd wear to bed if he weren't here: T-shirt, no bra, underwear. She can tell the second he gets it, though, because his eyes widen and the haze of sleep disappears immediately.

Before he can object, or even really react, she turns off the light and slides into bed next to him.

He's solid and warm against her, nothing but an ordinary human man wearing an undershirt and boxers and smelling faintly of the shampoo they've all been using. She wraps her arms around him, breathes him in; his arms come up around her, too, but tentatively now that they're both awake. She usually prefers her men bulkier than this, heavier, broader across the shoulders, but she's gotten used to this body's rangy length and fine bones. He's her normal now.

She reaches up to run a thumb over the curve of his lips. They part as if in surprise, and then a few seconds later she feels his tongue flicking at the tip, as though he's tasting her fingerprint. Despite herself, her breath catches, and they stare at each other for a few long seconds.

In the kitchen, earlier today, it wasn't clear who moved first in what turned into a kiss. This time it's Dinah. He responds hesitantly at first—even though she initiated it, even though they already did this once—but then grows more sure of himself, tangling a hand in her hair, settling the other on the small of her back. She stretches out half on top of him, one of her legs between his, and she hears him sigh. There's nothing angelic about it, nothing more or less than the reaction of a human man to a human woman, warm in bed and on his way to aroused.

She slides her hands underneath his shirt, just enough to let them rest on the bare skin of his stomach. The muscles quiver under her palms, and she whispers, "Can I take this off?" She punctuates it with a kiss to the declivity under his ear and a "Please?"

He nods, and lifts up a little so that she can gather the fabric and lift it over his head. She throws the shirt to the side and lets her fingers go exploring, tracing his collarbone, the arch of his throat, his tiny nipples and the lean muscles in his abdomen and hips. He sits up on his elbows to watch the trails her hands make, as though he's never been touched like that, never seen anyone draw paths on his own skin—and it occurs to her that maybe he hasn't.

"Anybody ever do this to you before?" she asks, outlining the delicate curve of an ear with her index finger.

He breathes in and shakes his head. "Not as far as I know." At her cocked eyebrow, he adds, "I have certain memories of my vessel, some of which concern…physical intimacy. But there is none precisely like this."

"So what is there?"

"Nothing—oh," he gasps as she takes a nipple between her teeth, pulling gently and then running her tongue over it. "Nothing I can easily explain. I was not usually concerned with those sorts of memories."

"That's a shame," she says, and moves them onto their sides, facing each other. "Those are the most fun."

She takes his hand and guides it to her breast—still over her T-shirt, but she can feel the heat of it through the cotton. His eyes are wide again, and very blue, and she can't help smiling. "It's OK," she tells him. "It feels good to me, too."

His fingers move experimentally, teasing through the protective layer of cloth, and her nipple hardens in response as heat unfurls between her thighs. "Yeah," she breathes in contentment—and then in shock as he pushes her onto her back and puts his mouth where his fingers were.

She whimpers embarrassingly—doesn't matter if there's jersey-knit in the way, it still feels fucking good—and her legs go around his hips, pull him hard against her. All that divides them are his boxers and her panties, and if he was on his way to aroused before, he's definitely there now. It's his turn to slide his hands under her shirt, and her turn to shiver at his touch on her bare skin. "Can I—please—" he fumbles, even as the calluses on his fingers are sending sparks ricocheting from nerve to nerve on her belly and ribcage.

"God, yes," she tells him, and raises her arms.

He really must not be lying about the limited memories from his vessel, because he's staring at her like he's Adam and she's Eve and he's never seen a naked woman before. Well, not completely naked, but it's not like bikinis cover very much.

She bites her lip and grins and says, "So what are you waiting for"

His answering smile is somehow both shy and sly.

She likes being in charge, usually, but that's sort of not what this is about. She lies back and lets him look at her, kiss her, discover her—outline her jaw with his fingertips, her collarbone with his tongue. He moves south like she wants him to, mouth on her areolae and nipples again, and her hips arch up in response. She can feel the size and shape of his cock, and she wants it inside her—wants to hear him moan, wants to watch his face, watch his eyes fall closed and watch him try not to come as she rides him.

Shit. No condoms.

The last way she needs to celebrate the averted apocalypse is by getting knocked up. Also, having an ex-angel's kid would be weird even by her standards.

She strokes the cut of his hip, lets her fingers slip just inside the waistband of his boxers—enough that he tries, probably unwittingly, to thrust into the touch, but not enough that he succeeds. In retaliation, he sucks hard on her nipple, and she cries out. (She loves that he's learning to play in bed, like people do.) She can feel how wet she is, and she wants his fingers there, wishes it could be his cock.

She cups him through the boxers, and he makes a noise that sounds like her name. She pulls him all the way on top, so that they line up—if they were naked, one push, and not a very hard one, would put him inside her. From the way he rocks against her, she's guessing he knows that, or at least some part of his brain does. She moves so that her lips are next to his ear and says, "I want you to fuck me." His breath escapes in a trembling rush, and she spreads her legs, cradles him between them. "But we can't, not until we have some condoms." She runs a nail down his spine and says, "There's other stuff we can do, though. Other stuff that feels good."

The wonder and desperation on his face aren't a hundred percent a substitute for knowing what he'd look like inside her, but they're still pretty awesome.

She rolls so that they're on their sides again. Then she pushes the boxers down and wraps her hand around his cock.

His gasp is beautifully harsh. He doesn't fight her when she strips the boxers off completely—and then his fingers are inside the bikinis, too. She wriggles until they're off, then covers his hand with hers and says,

"Your vessel tell you anything about this?"

"Not—_oh_—in great specificity."

Dinah leans up to kiss him, then says, "So let's consider it a life lesson."

They touch her together. She rubs up against Castiel's fingers, guides them to stroke her clit. She's slick, burning up, ready for him. "Inside," she whispers. "Start with two."

He obeys, sinks two elegant fingers into her cunt. "Hot," he murmurs, and she's pretty sure he doesn't realize he said that out loud.

"Cas—God—use your thumb. On my clit. Like I showed you."

He does, passes it back and forth lightly until she's making noises she can't bite back. She's about to ask for a third finger, but it turns out she doesn't have to—he goes from two to three and she moans, can feel herself tightening around them. He kisses her again and she's breathing her cries into his mouth, bites out, "Faster!" which is pretty much the only word she can say right now besides "Cas" and "yes." He rubs faster with his thumb, fucks her harder with his fingers, and then he sucks her nipple into his mouth again and the splintering pleasure is all she needs: She comes then and there, pulsing around his knuckles, shuddering as it ripples through her like shockwaves. He keeps stroking her until it's too much and she has to push his hand away.

She lies there panting, and it's only when she opens her eyes that she realizes he's licking his fingers. The angelic perv. "Taste good?" she asks, smirking as best she can in the aftermath of orgasm.

His reply of, "Yes," is completely serious.

She kisses him, and now they're both tasting her.

It's his turn.

She stretches out alongside him so that she can kiss and bite while her hand plays with his cock. This time the sound he makes is definitely her name, but she doesn't give in, just keeps up her slow, steady pace, thumbing the slit, rubbing the glans, letting him thrust up into her grip. She leans down to whisper, "Next time, next time I'm going to suck you. Pin your hands and draw it out until you're screaming. Would you like that?"

His answer is nonverbal, but she takes it for assent.

"Love watching you like this," she tells him. "All spread out and desperate for me. Desperate to come. Does it feel good?"

He makes another wordless noise, and she says, "I need a yes or a no, Cas."

He doesn't give her that, but he does manage, "Dinah."

She'll settle.

He doesn't last long, but he makes a noble effort, especially considering that it's his first. But his hips start to jerk and she knows he can't control himself—his body's chasing all the sensation it can get. She sucks a bruise onto the base of his throat, lets him feel her teeth, and that's when climax overtakes him. He comes all over her hand and his stomach, gasping, head thrown back. It goes on for a while, which she thinks is maybe what happens when you're a couple of thousand years old and you never did this before; even after his body is still, little whimpering sounds keep trying to escape his mouth.

She doesn't move to clean them off, just lies there and kisses his shoulder, runs her hand up and down his belly and sides until his breathing is steady again. He gathers her up against him, and it's messy but she goes, holding him close and stroking his hair.

"The memories…did not prepare me for that," he says after a few minutes.

"Nothing really does," she agrees.

They lie there like that for a while, quiet, and she tells herself that she isn't actually listening to his heartbeat. "We should clean up," she says when there's absolutely no way to pretend that she isn't doing it.

She stands at the door for a moment—everything is silent, and she sneaks into the dark hallway, once again careful on the irritable floorboards. In the bathroom, she does some basic maintenance on herself, then wets a washcloth and returns to the bedroom. Castiel is quiet, compliant, as she runs it over his body, and she sees him yawn.

"Tired?" she asks.

He nods.

"Sex'll do that to you. Well, not that we had sex. Except we didn't not have sex."

Now he looks both tired and confused, and she sighs. "You'll understand once we get some condoms." She finishes with the washcloth and tosses it into a corner of the room. They can deal with it in the morning.

She pulls the covers around them and settles against him, head on his chest. It's totally a pussy thing to do, but she's somehow pretty sure he won't think less of her for it. He strokes her hair and she dozes, exhausted and content.

She's almost asleep when Castiel says, "This part. The vessel shared his memories of this part."

Her eyes blink back open. "Yeah?"

"He was a priest pledged to celibacy, and he fell in love. With a woman. He— It was consummated. I do not know how many times, but…not often, I do not think." Dinah waits for Castiel to continue, and he does. "He seemed to think that this part was more intimate than—than the consummation itself."

"It can be," she says carefully. Castiel doesn't go on, and something occurs to her. "Wait, so what about when he…passed on? Did he go— Did he get punished or something, because he didn't do what he was supposed to?"

"His vow was a vow among men," Castiel says. "It was an admirable thing to attempt. But it was not necessary, in the Creator's eyes."

"But that was why he wanted to be—well, not possessed. But vesselled. Whatever."

"Yes. So that the temptation would be removed. He felt that he would be better able to do the Creator's work, if it were."

Dinah wonders whether Castiel believes that's true, but she doesn't ask. He's here with her, after all. Maybe that means he doesn't believe that, or maybe it just means he doesn't think he'll be doing God's work anymore.

She finds herself, strangely, hoping for the former.

There's no more pretext of opposite sides of the bed when they fall asleep. The sun is bright when they wake up together, naked and close.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Swords into Plowshares](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700343) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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